Heretic Pride
by Taattosbt
Summary: This is a story about a man in mutually destructive relationship realizing it may not be as good as he thought; and another man who just got out of mutually destructive relationship and then moved half way across the world to direct plays.
1. Sax Rohmer 1

THE PARIS GUARDIAN: ARTS AND LEISURE SECTION

FRESH BLOOD, RADICALISM, AND TRIUMPH

 _Tallahassee_ (the debut offering of Rosalie Sully, an American musician-cum-writer) is, by definition, a bad opera. It is also the best thing to hit the Palais Garnier's stage in years.

The low budget, off-night production is the first in the opera house's new "avant-garde" season. Management claims the season is to give a chance to new operas and composers. In this reviewer's opinion it is also a chance to make a buck selling seats to cheap productions.

 _Tallahassee_ stars four ballet/chorus members. Their voices are nice, but inexperienced, the set is non-existent, the costumes out of the actor's closets, and the dance a mish-mash of true ballet and everything from acrobatics to combat. It breaks every rule and I love every minute of it. The rough edges and the raw young performers bring the bare-bones music and uncomfortable script to life in a way a polished production never could.

The story follows the "alpha couple" as they move to a run down house in the eponymous town. Theatre is full of lovers and the obstacles they overcome. I have seen lovers overcoming harsh parents, feuding families, uncaring societies, unjust justice, and malevolent gods. _Tallahassee_ offers two lovers overcoming _each other_ for the sake of their love. A woman and a man (unnamed in the show and listed in the program as the "alpha female" and "alpha male" respectively) arrive in town to an unfurnished house/stage. They populate the emptiness with a sofa, chairs, mattress, and an ashtray, while singing about the end-of-their-rope circumstances that brought them there. They proceed to enact a train wreck; two people so desperately in love they ruin each other. The mood shifts from manic joy, to looming dread, to contented resignation, to raging hatred, to ecstatic mutual destruction, all accompanied by a few guitars, some drums, and a piano.

Josee Bonnet and Betrand Houtem deliver visceral performances as the leads. They brush up against the melodrama of the plot (and for all it's strong points it can be melodramatic as the players sing of drowning together "hand in unlovable hand") without losing the gut wrenching reality of their situation. Though swept under the rug by polite society, I am willing to bet that every person reading this article has either experienced or witnessed a relationship wherein, in the words of director Charles Cushman, "both parties have realized that the person [they] want to sing all [their] love songs to, is also the person [they] want to destroy."

Cushman is a fresh face from America. True to the stereotypes of his birthplace, the young man flouts all tradition. In our brief interview, Mr. Cushman detailed his vision of theatre: "the purpose of theatre is to exhilarate. However possible. Anything, any reaction—joy, disgust, awe, fear, laughter—that is the aim. Because big reactions means people are going to think about it." I certainly will be. And, love it or hate, _Tallahassee_ will stick with you. Forget the prima donnas and prima ballerinas this director is the new rising star to watch out for.

 _Tallahassee_ runs 2 hours long. Evening performances Sunday through Wednesday. Tickets available from the Palais Garnier box-office. Limited seating on and around the stage (Cushman closed off much of the auditorium to achieve an intimate mood). Stars: Josee Bonnet, Bertrand Houtem, Thorsten Fournier, and Hennie Van Der Aart. Writer/composer: Rosalie Sully. Director: Charles Saunders Cushman.

 _Erik read the months old article again that night because of what happened at the masquerade. Surrounded by a terrified audience and sitting on the steps in Erik's shadow, Charles Cushman read the script of_ Don Juan Triumphant.

* * *

All profit and rights go to the estate of Gaston Leroux. Also to Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose musical introduced me to this story.

The story is named for the album that outlines its arc: "Heretic Pride" by the Mountain Goats. "Tallahassee" is also an album of theirs, so if you would like to listen to the story of "the alpha couple" (they are called so by the fandom) please do look it up on youtube and consider buying the album.


	2. San Bernardino

Charles was a slender figure stranded in the vastness of the Palais Garnier's stage. He was a small man, though that may have been an effect of the cavernous stage. His hair stuck out at odd angles from the frequent combing of his own fingers. His drab and wrinkled coat mirrored the clutter of sets pressed against the back wall and the scuffed and dusty boards beneath his feet. He belonged there.

"So what's my budget?" He called to the nothingness. Utilitarian.

The outburst startle Erik ever so slightly. He had not noticed Fermin and Andre, the producers, enter. They seemed surprised as well. Charles continued regardless, "For _Don Juan._ What's the budget?" He spun around. "Here's a hint: low ball it. Good things come on shoe strings."

That was not right. The script called for a set. An elaborate one. And, though they were not explicitly demanded, costumes fitting the characters were assumed. A low budget would never do.

Andre spoke first. "We thought…" He addressed his partner in a glance. "8,000 francs."

Charles sucked air through his upper teeth and lower lip. The sound was thunderous in the acoustics of the Palais Garnier. "I'll do it on less." He shook himself and added in after thought: "Thank you, though."

Erik liked this eccentric director less and less.

Charles dangled his legs off the stage corner before jumping down to the audience level. "I want Meg Giry to choreograph it."

"Did you give me the wrong time just for that revelation?" The woman in question called from the door. She swept down the center aisle with a grace that betrayed her parentage.

"I've never been so precise in my life." Charles blustered and then gave in to what seemed to be an ingrained self deprecation coupled with a most-unfortunately-ingrained laid-back-attitude. "I gave you the wrong time because I forgot the time."

Fermin piped up, "Madame Giry Senior is the usual choice of choreographer—"

"And she is already working on two other productions this season." Charles spoke over him. "I want Meg and the Maestro herself is overworked… you should give them both a raise" He added under his breath.

From his vantage point in the boxes Erik could just see Meg Giry's sharp glare. Then, because his attention was caught, he saw Charles Cushman's chastened but nonetheless cheeky flash of a smile.

"Fine." Andre conceded. He spent too much breath on the vowel. He sounded haughty and defeated. Erik suppressed a chuckle. Andre waved Fermin down as he was about to speak. "We can discuss the details later. We just wanted to be sure—"

"You _are_ going to direct it?" Fermin finished the question. He cast "it" as a thing of disgust.

"He is." Meg affirmed.

Charles smiled. "I assure you, gentlemen, I am." He spread his arms and spun to the house and stage at once. "This. Is the most interesting thing to come along in a while." Erik may have imagined it, but that peacock of a boy stopped for half a second before box #5.

At least he gave some indication of knowing his place.

The producers said their adieus. The younger Giry tugged Cushman's attention from the expanse of the stage. "Would you like to go to Haricot Manquant?"

The coffee house—Haricot Manquant—was the favored haunt of the apprentice ballerinas, singers, and musicians. Charles took one last look. "Yes. Best to start early."

Meg glanced away and back in an instant. "Not to talk about the production. Just to talk."

Charles took too long to answer. For the first time Erik felt sorry for Charles, interloper though he was. "I'd like that…" The newcomer skipped a breath, "and I'd like to talk about the production."

Erik watched them leave the theater. He was not sure, but maybe—just maybe—this production would be a welcome surprise.

* * *

All profit and rights go to the estate of Gaston Leroux. Also to Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose musical introduced me to this story.

The story is named for the album that outlines its arc: "Heretic Pride" by the Mountain Goats. "Tallahassee" is also an album of theirs, so if you would like to listen to the story of "the alpha couple" (they are called so by the fandom) please do look it up on youtube and consider buying the album.


	3. Heretic Pride

Madame Giry entered from the wings, letter in her outstretched hand.

Most everyone on stage stopped where they were. A few people shot dirty looks at Christine. His Christine swallowed and blinked to keep from looking back. Always so gentle. She worried what others thought not because she cared about her reputation but because she hated making other people feel sad, or angry, or jealous. So kind.

Madame Giry stopped beside Charles. "For you, monsieur."

He tore the letter open. "Who is Og?"

"He prefers 'Opera Ghost.'" Christine said. Erik's heart beat askew for a moment. She was trying to keep the peace between him and this boy. A sweet gesture, but futile.

"That may be, but he signed it 'Og.'" Charles held up the letter.

"They are initials, monsieur." Wise words from Giry senior, but the director had none of it.

"I don't care. And—before we continue—let's bring him in the conversation." The entire stage cringed as Charles shouted to the house, "Hey! Writer! You don't send me this shit, asshole!"

Piangi's eyebrows hit his hair line. Madame Giry tightened her grip on her cane. He noticed Piangi and gestured to him. "You're right. I should stick with writer. It's worse." He yelled again, "You don't send me this shit, writer!" He spread his arms wide. The letter flapped in his left hand. "You have given your baby to me, and if I want to smash its brains against the nearest wall: I can do that!" He licked his lips. "In all seriousness kill your babies, it's freeing." There were a few gasps. He leapt to sooth them. "Not your literal babies, your metaphorical, artistic babies. Like…" He waved his arms again, "A favorite scene or that one chord in act four, which—" He shouted to the open air, "—we are going to talk about, by the way!"

One of the chorus girls whispered, "We're all going to die."

"You're not gonna die, Josie. I'm gonna die." Charles corrected her.

"No one is dying. The police will close us down for good." Meg spoke quietly, calmly, perhaps with a tinge of her usual timidity. But beneath it all there was current of humor. Her speech was the one good thing in a trying scene. It was good to see his friend's daughter coming out of her shell. Normally, in rehearsals, she'd only speak to Christine. He glanced to see Christine's reaction. She was smiling. The prima-ballerina-cum-choreographer continued, "Perhaps you and our illustrious writer could speak after the rehearsal."

"Yes." Charles pocketed the letter. "Of course."

Rehearsal passed with no more outbursts.

When it ended some people rushed for the exits. Others lingered, perhaps concerned for the madman in charge of the production, perhaps in hopes of seeing the madman's demise. The crowd filtered out.

Charles spoke in hushed tones to Carlotta. Her characteristic pout faltered slightly. They murmured back and forth. Carlotta smiled. Charles bowed his head. Carlotta dipped hers and departed. Then it was just them. The director and the writer.

Erik made his way through the scaffolding to the stage itself. When he emerged Cushman had his back turned. He was reading a letter. It was not Erik's.

"I am told I should apologize immediately." The boy did not turn around when he spoke. Erik increasingly disliked his habit of speaking to nothingness and expecting Erik to hear him. "And I should. It was wrong to speak to harshly to you." Erik crept closer. Cushman still did not see him. "I had one too many passive-aggressive notes today. You were just the straw that broke the camel's back."

This close to him, Erik noticed that Cushman was impeccably shaved. It did not fit with his scruffy demeanor. It was the last thing Erik thought before he wrapped the rope around the boy's neck.

Cushman gasped for breath and fought to fit his fingers under the noose. It was useless. Erik held it just tight enough. He wanted to speak to the boy about manners before he left the corpse to be discovered in the morning. "You dare to ignore my words." Another cough. Cushman thrashed against his attacker. Erik yanked on the rope. "This is my opera house. This is _my_ opera." Cushman crumpled against Erik. His lungs still struggled for air. "Tell me why I should show you mercy?"

"Who else—is—.—going to—take on this—play?"

Erik let go of the rope and pushed the boy to the stage. Even on his knees, he could not support himself. He curled up on the boards and coughed.

A minute passed and another. The other man finally caught his breath and flipped himself over to look up at Erik. "So." He coughed again. "You position:" He fished Erik's note out of his pocket, "'My script calls for a set fitting the station and fame of its protagonist. Disobey my instructions at your peril.'" Charles set the letter aside. "Alright. My position: this opera is about what's underneath. It's lust, and love, and connecting with other human beings in ways we never do in polite society. Juan represents that part of our nature—which is not inherently bad but it does threaten to consume us—so we use manners, and code, and expectations to control it. Sometimes too much. To me this story is about Doña Ana. It is about her stripping away all of that—inspired by, guided by Don Juan—and meeting, coming to terms with, accepting that part of human nature." Charles grew more animated through out. He was on his knees, now. His hand flailed about, drawing pictures only he could see. "I want the set to reflect that construction of humanity. I want it half built. Pieces hinting what it would be if totally ordered and contained, but pieces falling apart, falling out, and bursting that illusion of bloodless control." He met Erik's eyes for the first time. "Also it'll give the dancers so much to play with. Meg—Mademoiselle Giry—is talking to me about acrobatics, jumping around the levels. You should hear her."

Erik kept Charles waiting for his answer. But he did answer. "I give you permission to construct that vision."

"Thank you." Charles swallowed. "Do you want to sit down? Here." He shed his coat and spread it over the dusty floor. "You're dressed nicer than I am."

"You wanted to speak to me about the chord in act four." Erik sat. He knew the chord the other man meant. It was barely music, more a wall of discord.

"Yes. I love it. Breaks the rules, goes right to my sweet spot." He rubbed his chin. "It's a bit of a guide for me. It sums up all that stuff I was talking about. Sorry, to monologue, by the way."

Erik gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. "What did you say to The Great Toad?" Ever since Carlotta had so insulted Christine Erik had taken to giving her that title rather than her undeserved "prima donna."

"I told her I'm excited to work with her and that I'm especially excited to see her in a supporting role." Erik narrowed his eyes. Charles simply shrugged, "I think she's going knock it out of the park. Despite what she thinks she's not perfect for every leading role. But, despite what _you_ think, she is experienced and talented. I want to see what she does with this."

"I suppose you are entitled to your opinion."

"Don't give me shit, writer." Charles grinned. It seemed life-threatening danger was a joke to him. Despite himself, Erik sniffed in amusement. Monsieur Cushman's bravado was just stupid enough to be entertaining. There was a beat in the conversation, and then, "Do you want me to bring coffee in the morning?"

"What?"

"I hear you. When I'm here early. It's you or some small rodents. Do you want me to bring an extra cup?"

"Speaking to you about _Don Juan Triumphant_ would save me stationery."

And that became the tradition. Charlie brought coffee in the morning.

A week or so later Erik took to bringing tea in the evenings.

* * *

I realize I should give some context as far as time period goes. In short, there isn't one. This story exists in a place where the late 1800's can meet modern indie rock and theatrical practices.

Thank you very much for your support. I hope the story continues to interest. Critiques, questions, and comments are always welcome.

All profit and rights go to the estate of Gaston Leroux. Also to Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose musical introduced me to this story.

The story is named for the album that outlines its arc: "Heretic Pride" by the Mountain Goats. "Tallahassee" is also an album of theirs, so if you would like to listen to the story of "the alpha couple" (they are called so by the fandom) please do look it up on youtube and consider buying the album.


	4. Autoclave

"Why aren't you with Meg?"

Charlie frowned. "What?"

Erik began calling the other man 'Charlie' shortly after that first rehearsal. He prodded, "You've spent more evenings here than with her this week." And a further poke, "Why did you do that?"

Charlie brushed him off, "Production meeting with my writer."

Erik parried, "She is your choreographer."

Charlie sighed and took a pull of Erik's lapsang souchong, "If I miss a meeting with her I still get a good dance. If I miss a meeting with you I get letters and sets dropped on me."

"Well." Erik challenged him. He set his face, what of it could be seen beneath the mask, and said his peace. "Then let's discuss the production."

"Yes. Let's. I'm satisfied. Rehearsals are chugging along. I'm looking forward to the first full run tomorrow." Madame Giry's major offering to _Don Juan Triumphant_ was set to rehearse tomorrow. Erik awaited it with baited breathe as well. Madmae Giry's offering promised to be the sore-thumb highlight of the extravaganza that was his opera. "Christine and Piangi have a few dicey scenes, but I'm confident they'll get there."

Charlie eyed him. Erik knew that Mr. Cushman brought up Christine to needle him.

He did not rise to the bait. "I am satisfied as well… against all odds." He whispered. And yet Charlie caught him.

Erik saw it in the wrinkles of his frown. "Excellent." He may not have meant it, but the line showed around the lip of his tea cup.

"Is it because of the letters?" Erik gambled on the question.

Charlie put his cup down. "You haven't sent any letters." And then one last stab at comedy: "Please, do not start sending letters."

"The ones that do not come from me." Charlie read them when he though no one,—not even Erik—was watching.

Charlie chuckled without any trace of humor. "Do you know who Rosalie Sully is?"

"She wrote your debut opera." Erik said. When Charlie offered nothing more, he added, "She is American, as well. A violinist originally, yes?"

Charlie let out a breath. The breath of that which has come and gone. "Well. If you know _Tallahassee,_ then you know the whole story."

He suspected—in the shadows of his dreams—he suspected that the operetta had more to do with reality than it let on. "Yet she still sends her love letters."

Charlie laughed, "Yeah. Sure. For Rosalie and me, these are love letters."

Erik pressed his advantage. "And you do not writer back. Do you?"

"C'mon, Og!" Charlie cried. "You saw the show—"

"I missed it, actually." He refreshed Charlie's cup with hot water. "I felt the brain-child of two junk mongers could come to no good."

"Ouch." Charles nodded to the phrasing. "What do you know?"

"It is a love story."

"It is about two people who _think_ they are in a love story." Charlie corrected. "What they have: it isn't love. Or… it's twisted—no. It's abusive. Simple as that."

"And that," Erik added, just to be clear, "Is what Ms. Sully and you had?"

"Yes." Charlie nodded. "It feels like love. It feels like you never want it to end. And it feels like it never will." At that point Erik willed him to stop. He did not. "Something in you always knows it is wrong. But that is part of the charm. It takes a wake up call." He shuddered. "The day I read _Tallahassee_ ; that's the day I bought a ticket for here."

"What did you do to each other?" Erik looked at the other man, close to tears, and he remained stoic.

"I had insecurities. She manipulated—" Charles over enunciated the word—"them. And I… I reacted with violence." There was true shame in his voice. Charlie offered his lover's letter to Erik. "She always said it better…" He trailed off.

And Erik read.

It spoke of the couple's first night in Boston. They drank as they moved into the new house. Rosalie wrote that she offered Charlie more gin to make his voice rougher, 'because the sound of your voice was already beginning to get to me.' She wrote: 'I remember that we both knew exactly what this was, but we stuck to each other anyway. Like the living breathing words of the marriage vow. "In sickness and in health." I remember sickness. We weren't sick, we were sickness itself…'

Erik put the letter down.

"I don't hate her for it." Charlie blinked down at the piece of paper between them. "They are her way of healing."

"And reading them?" Erik glared at Charlie, but the other man refused to raise his eyes. "What is that for you?"

Charlie laughed, dry and airy. Humorless. Dark. "Self torture." He bit his lip. "Meg doesn't deserve that. Me." He sighed and set his features, settling into his body as a soldier sets a rifle to his shoulder. "In these relationships, the sour outweighs the sweet."

* * *

Thank you very much for your support. I hope the story continues to interest. Critiques, questions, and comments are always welcome.

All profit and rights go to the estate of Gaston Leroux. Also to Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose musical introduced me to this story.

The story is named for the album that outlines its arc: "Heretic Pride" by the Mountain Goats. "Tallahassee" is also an album of theirs, so if you would like to listen to the story of "the alpha couple" (they are called so by the fandom) please do look it up on youtube and consider buying the album.


	5. New Zion

NEW ZION

The first ballet landed too close to home.

In the end he was glad that box five was so full of shadows. Charlie assumed he watched everything. Sometimes though, he had other tasks on his mind. Arrangements, sustenance, etc. He'd slip out and return an hours later. Charlie never knew.

It was that spider-thin life line that kept him there. The knowledge that he could leave and no one would see. No one would know.

The ballet set the scene. It was the milieu of the town, suggested by the sets and brought to life by the dancers. This first scene took place in a Spanish town square. The church to one side. A cantina on another. Shops between.

And then the first few ballerinas buzzed on stage. Light steps. Mundane movements. The two simulated sweeping the entrance to a tienda. Another swung open the door to the tavern and placed tables and chairs outside.

Then came a few more. The shops opened one by one like morning glories. The customers took away fish, flour, milk, fruit. The orchestra simulated church bells. Morning moved to noon. More dancers. And that was when the first shot hit.

There was a beggar boy. He clambered out of a basement window of the church. Branched and geometric like the roof of some holy place far away.

And there was a ballerina. Playing some girl of the town. No doubt out doing the errands of the house. She buys cheese and apricots. Some figs, nuts, and a loaf of crusty bread. All made of plaster and paint. He'd have to ask Charlie to pass his compliments on to props.

The beggar boy, head down and matted hair falling over what little of his face could be seen, crouched on the church steps. The people ignored his outstretched hand.

This, in and of itself, would mean nothing. But then Madame Giry's choreography turned down memory lane. The girl approached the boy. Backs shielding their business from the crowd on stage, but angled to give the audience a view, she divvied up the groceries. He gathered his portion into the tattered folds of his clothing.

That was too close. Too close to that night decades ago when he was reborn. When he had a new life. Too close to all the nights after when Giry brought him food. Kept him alive for the years, opera, and music to come.

The boy scampered back to the crypts of the fake church and Erik knew that this was no coincidence. This was a note to him. Madame choreographer left this for him. Nothing urgent. Just a reminder of the past.

And it was just a reminder. There were six pas de deux, another seven choral/solo dancers. The scene was perfection in each crystalized fragment (Not a leg out of place. Not an arm crossing the middle). It was chaos strung and whirled together. Layer on layer of ordered, perfect ballet, amounting to a square of entropy in this ornate and classic space.

Neither girl nor boy appeared again. The day ran on to evening. The cantina became truly busy. Charlotta's character swaggered onstage to set the singing scene. The night life began as Don Juan's time approached.

The ballet ended thirty seconds later.

Meg called a break. Charlie spun off in deep conversation with Madame Giry. Erik just watched. The dancers stretched and leapt from the stage. The orchestra retuned. Everyone chatted.

Personally, Erik remembered.

Those first few months of depending on Giry for food. Free for the first time. Scared, elated, and waiting. Waiting, waiting for the sign of his own life. His own passion.

And yet he remembered it fondly. That was the feeling of ecstasy. Sucking at a womb—surrogate for the one he had never known—. For sustenance. For the absence of pain. For pleasure. Pulling at the one thing in existence that could save him.

He left at lunch break.

All profit and rights go to the estate of Gaston Leroux. Also to Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose musical introduced me to this story.

The story is named for the album that outlines its arc: "Heretic Pride" by the Mountain Goats. "Tallahassee" is also an album of theirs, so if you would like to listen to the story of "the alpha couple" (they are called so by the fandom) please do look it up on youtube and consider buying the album.


	6. So Desperate

He looked for Christine in the chapel first.

Erik had not met with Charlie in two days. But this was the first time he sought someone else out. His only other someone else.

When she entered he felt her miracle all over again. She was long, like an Ionian column. Or willow tree. For she was too miraculous to be made by man. Her curls swayed—no: bounced—no—there was no word for their movement along her neck. A neck which, in his later and more carnal moments, he would imagine kissing like there was no other use for his lips. Her eyes, sparkled from a distance. All the way up the hall. Even around the corner—Erik could swear. By all rights of physics they ought to be undetectable at such a distance, and yet they remain with him. Like stones set into flesh.

But this was the first time he was consciously uncomfortable with Christine. And it was only a small part of him. A fraction. A minutia. But there it was.

He chalked it up to Charlie. A grain of the director falling into him and lodging itself in his side. Like a thorn.

" _Meg asks me about you_." Charlie echoes in his head. " _She needs to know her best friend is OK."_

"Yes." Erik wanted to respond, and yet he could not. Was Christine safe with him? Charlie rippled through every moment.

Erik consoled himself in simplicity. In response to Charlie's ripple was his own: He offered Christine simplicity. Sing. That was all. He would compose and she would sing. They would starve together performing their dreams.

And still, Charlie haunted him.

Perhaps Erik's dream was not Christine's? Perhaps Erik's dream was not even his own? He would never hurt Christine… and yet what should he call what he was doing now?

Inches from her; brushing her calves, her thigh's, her breasts. What was this? Other than loving and threatening. The two were sickly-one and the same. And the seed Charlie planted in him objected to such twisted equivalencies.

These touches shifted them from the simple impulse of bettering himself. And Christine. Of expanding their experience. And causing her to sing. Truly sing. Pouring herself into the music and raising every person whose ear it even touched to rise up. To rise up on tip-toe in an effort to hear such truth.

But then there was the other part. In Erik, as with all, Christine's voice awoke the essence of all things… and yet there was a part that spoke in Charlie's voice—But that wasn't right. The knot that resounded in him was his own. A part of Erik that spoke in Charlie's voice because it was the easiest tool. That was not right…

 _Cutting her._

 _Isolating her._

 _Hurting Christine._

He turn from her light of day. And let his…

"Let your fantasies unwind"

Beyond the halo of stained glass; or the trick of the light; or the rays within the pyramid of a prism. Through all such lies she shone.

Later that night, Erik whispered to his pillow: "I felt so desperate. In your arms."

He cried upon her name.

And then laughed.

Because in that moment what they both thought on was the trees. The glass trees that watched above them and blessed their coupling. An oak—King of the Forest—lit their way in silver, through the translucent green of his silicon leaves.

They both imagined the screams of the crowd. But, of course, there were none. Christine and he were not on stage. They were stories beneath the ground and in the dark. And yet he "let his fantasies unwind…"

And there they were. Christine and Erik. Face to face. With Charlie cutting between them.

* * *

All profit and rights go to the estate of Gaston Leroux. Also to Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose musical introduced me to this story.

The story is named for the album that outlines its arc: "Heretic Pride" by the Mountain Goats. "Tallahassee" is also an album of theirs, so if you would like to listen to the story of "the alpha couple" (they are called so by the fandom) please do look it up on youtube and consider buying the album.


	7. In the Craters on the Moon

Charlie called an early rehearsal that day. In the time He and Eric would normally drink tea or coffee and speak. Though when the rehearsal started, Eric began to think it was Meg who called it.

"Christine I need you to sing. Piangi too." She directed Christine to the side of the stage. "And, Nadége, Begin the end-of-act pas-de-deaux. Uhm… Reyer, you can conduct if you want, but…"

"…But this will be organic." The conductor nodded and either grinned or grimaced. "I'll watch for now."

"Thank you, Maestro." Meg bowed. She spoke to Charlie, "I have something choreographed already, but I want to experiment a bit."

"That's what a director wants to hear." Charlie smiled from the front row.

"Excellent." Meg clapped her hands. "Get up here."

"I'm sorry?"

"I need a body. Get up here."

"But you have Christine."

"Until I get this choreographed it's best to let her sing unencumbered." Meg and Christine shared a look. Eric could not decide if it was professionals reaching an understanding that, yes, dancing interfered with singing, or if it was two friends enacting a plan.

"Alright." Charlie clambered on to the stage. "Where do you want me?"

"Stage right. Where Christine enters."

"Got it."

Charlie made his way to the entrance. Meg nodded and the music began. "I want this scene to embody what we've been talking about. The dichotomy between ordered and chaotic." Meg's hands fluttered this way and that, a bit like Charlie's but far more sane. "So. You enter as the music takes you and I'll call a halt when necessary."

Charlie nodded, partly to the order and partly to himself. Eric could tell he was nervous. Charlie was giving himself a mental pep talk.

Meg began, "And, one, two, three…"

Nadége's violin whistled the top notes of the duet's song. Eric watched Charlie like a hawk. His attention paid off. Charlie grounded himself—his knees bent and his shoulders drooped—finally his weight settled in his midriff and his eyes rose to light the way.

Charlie swayed from side to side as he sauntered forth. His hips formed the troughs and peaks of a sine curve. He was very good at moving like a woman, Eric noted.

Christine began her song.

Meg entered from the other side when Piangi began to sing as well. She stood straight and tall, but she did not transform as much as Charlie. Eric chuckled to himself. It was typical of the director to put his all into the most trivial of things.

Until then Eric had lounged in his seat in box five. When Meg stretched to second position and beyond. She let her hand float out and brush Charlie's cheek. At that, Eric was at the edge of his seat.

Charlie blinked and turned his head to the side. But as the music continued so did he.

Charlie followed Meg's lead. As was appropriate. He played the part of the blushing maiden, and Meg the experienced seducer. Charlie slipped his own hand over Meg's and curled his fingers around hers. She twirled him in. Collected her self in his hair—as they both collected themselves in each other.

And out they spun again. Hands forming a thread of spun sugar to connect each other.

Through all this, their movements matched the singers. The swell of voices was locked with the caress of the dancers.

As the music went on, the dance became more...

Eric noticed the discomfort in Charlie. The fight. It lay in his face the most. His body was busy dancing, serving the play. But his face gave away the struggle. The trembling movements of his jaw were just like the ones Eric saw when they talked and when the subject was something uncomfortable.

Eric saw the dance in a new light. Meg pulled Charlie closer. She pushed harder. The choreography became less and less a dance and more and more…Eric did not have the words. Intimate? It felt like something that should not be on stage. And yet he could not look away. It was so fascinating.

He understood Meg's ideas now. Both of them. The first concerned the play itself. Her choreography was brilliant. As Don Juan and Chris—Donna Anna grew closer together in poetry, the dancers that shadowed them revealed their true intentions. The desire beneath the facades.

Her other idea was what made Charlie so uncomfortable. Eric knew that deep down Charlie would fall into Meg's arms in a second. But the director was scared. Scared of himself and his past. She was courting him more aggressively than usual. On the stage Meg gave him a taste of what she would like to do. She lifted him onto the table. He hands placed his legs around her middle and then snaked to his scalp. She buried her head in his neck.

For his part, Charlie only allowed himself to give in and dream when he shut his eyes. Each blink was longer and longer, and in each one he would relax. He would let Meg direct their actions. Allow himself to experiment under the guise of rehearsal.

Near the end of the song, Meg called a halt. "Christine, Maestro Piangi, do you get the aesthetic?"

Christine nodded. Piangi, with only the smallest of malice, asked, "I assume the dancers will do the same behind us?"

"Yes." Meg's reply was like lightening. "Josee and Thorsten couldn't be here. I thought you'd appreciate the heads up before the full rehearsal."

Piangi nodded his acceptance.

"So." Charlie sprang down from the table he was still dangling off of, "That's an hour before we reconvene. Be ready to do the scene in full."

The room cleared out. Meg was last to leave. Eric caught the look between her and Charlie. Meg, as always, inviting, and Charlie, as always, ambivalent. Eric knew the story behind the ambivalence. He knew that the director was a better man now. He wished Charlie would go with her. If only to justify Eric's own interest in Christine.

When the auditorium was empty save for the two of them, Eric descended to the stage. "Why don't you ever go with her?"

"Let's talk about the play."

"You're not the same person. And she is not Rosalie."

"Let's talk about the rehearsal."

"No. Let's not."

Charlie laughed. Manically and with absolutely no mirth. "Fine." He rounded on Eric, eyes cold and body poised for a fight. "Let's talk about Christine."

* * *

All profit and rights go to the estate of Gaston Leroux. Also to Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose musical introduced me to this story.

The story is named for the album that outlines its arc: "Heretic Pride" by the Mountain Goats. "Tallahassee" is also an album of theirs, so if you would like to listen to the story of "the alpha couple" (they are called so by the fandom) please do look it up on youtube and consider buying the album.


	8. Lovecraft in Brooklyn

"What about her?" Eric stood his ground. Still. Poker faced.

Charlie snorted, "What about Meg?" He challenged. "We don't like each others relationships." Eric had to give him credit. Charlie had the decency to check in with him as he declared the state of play.

Eric nodded. "Why don't you like mine?"

His opponent laughed out loud. "Seriously?" He gained his composure just enough to speak between breathes.

Then Charlie began to hum. Erratic and out of tune. But soon Eric recognized it as a song from _Tallahassee_. "Have to Explode."

"We're not like that." Eric commanded. That was not Eric and Christine. It couldn't be like that.

"Yes you are." Charlie teased, bordering on the hysterical as he did so. "Take it from someone who's been there."

"You only know the worst of relationships."

"Well." Charlie shook his head like a dog. "There but for the grace of god go you."

"Fuck you." It was out of Eric's mouth before he could stop it. The American was having a worse influence on him than he thought.

And he knew it. "Oh, you're the first to use profanity? World really is headed to Armageddon."

Someone was roaring. The sound pounded on Eric's ears. Next thing he knew he was face to face with Charlie. Eric's hands were fisted in the other man's lapels. He saw the pain in Charlie's face as his head hit the wall.

"Come on, do it!" Charlie screamed. "Do it!" Eric could smell his last meal on Charlie's breath. "Never choked someone face to face before?" Charlie jerked him closer. "I want you to do it." Another pull. So hard it ground the bones in Eric's wrists against each other. "Come on!"

The phantom threw the other man to the ground.

Charlie breathed heavily on the floor. "What do you think of me?" He asked.

"I think you should welcome her." Meg. Eric meant Meg.

"That's only because…" Charlie got to his knees. Coughed. Adjusted his tie. "…you wish I would tell you to welcome Christine."

The director could not meet the writer's eye. He was ashamed. And when he finally. Finally. After several, long, beats, he looked up, it was written all over him. His shoulders, chest, eyes, jaw, thighs and palms resting on them. Charlie was ashamed, because he saw himself in Eric. And Charlie could not save him. Could not save himself.

Eric slumped against the side of the proscenium stage. Feeling each of his vertebrae knock against the stone column. Charlie was a friend—and Eric had few enough of those—and the one thing Charlie wanted Eric would never give him.

Because Charlie was wrong. Eric and Christine did not need saving. They were right for each other. Perfect.

Perfect.

"Shit." Eric did not realize he had closed his eyes until Charlie's profanity made him open them again. "There's no hope for either of us. Is there?"

"That's what you want me to think."

"It will spare you and Christine a lot of trouble." For a moment Eric thought Charlie would not continue. Bur the director was not a merciful person. "But mostly Christine."

"We are in love." Eric stated. The truth. Nothing but the truth.

"Sure." Charlie rubbed his eyes. "Yes." He hissed. "But it hurts. It hurts you. And no matter what the operas say, love should not hurt."

* * *

All profit and rights go to the estate of Gaston Leroux. Also to Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose musical introduced me to this story.

The story is named for the album that outlines its arc: "Heretic Pride" by the Mountain Goats. "Tallahassee" is also an album of theirs, so if you would like to listen to the story of "the alpha couple" (they are called so by the fandom) please do look it up on youtube and consider buying the album.


	9. Tianchi Lake

Christine's false love had managed to get in a few good hits. There was a slash on Erik's left forearm and a deeper one on his right side. It stung when he eased his short over his head. The blood on the fabric was bright red. Still wet, but cooling now that it had left his body. It would dry into a brown mess, but in that moment the red and white held a twisted beauty. He discarded the ruined shirt on the floor by the organ.

The water lapped at the steps to his sanctuary as he gathered what he needed. Bandages, alcohol, he didn't think the cuts were deep enough for stitches but he picked up needle and thread just in case. He had settled onto his organ bench—back to the keys, supplies laid out beside him—when the water changed its tone.

Splashes echoed down the cistern. Feet moving through the water. Someone was coming.

He listened closer, perfectly still. The splashes were long, his mind's eye saw the water arcing out in sheets from the visitor. Not the staccato of two feet lifting and falling, more the sound of wading. A skirt. His visitor was a woman, then. His heart skipped a beat as his brain supplied "Christine." Then both head and heart snapped back to reality. She was not going to visit him. She would be in the arms of his rival. Caring for his wounds and being cared for.

It must be Madame Giry. She must have found out. She knew everything about her dancers, Meg and Christine especially. Sure enough the woman appeared at the gate a moment later. She raised her cane and tapped it on the wrought iron.

"Good evening, Madame Giry."

"Good evening, monsieur. May I come in?"

"Please."

Her skirt hung heavy with water at the hem when she stepped onto the dry stones. She placed a small bag beside him. Took his left hand in her bony fingers. She lifted his arm and inspected the cut. "I see I did not need to bring a medical kit. You are well prepared as always."

"Thank you, madame. And you are generous, as always." Kindness was so rare in the world. Madame Giry was one of only a very few who offered that commodity to him.

She began to wrap his arm. "You are lucky."

The binding stung. As did his pride. Despite his skill that prissy nobleman bested him. Only Christine's mercy saved him. He chose not to dwell on the loss. Though, he would enshrine her kindness in the deepest chamber of his heart.

He turned his thoughts to the kindness of his oldest ally. "Thank you for your care, madame. It is difficult to wrap bandages with only one hand."

She pursed her lips. "I came as soon as the Vicomte and Mademoiselle Daaé returned rather ruffled."

"You do not approve of my actions." So much for kindness.

"I do not."

"I act out of love."

"I do not object to that."

"What is your objection?"

"My objection is in two parts: professional and personal." She replied as she began a second layer of bandages.

Erik winced. Madame Giry was wrapping his arm quite tightly. "Your professional objection?"

"An opera requires a healthy, uninjured, and un-traumatized prima donna." Her words were flinty. "Combat puts everyone in the vicinity at risk and creates mental stress in the onlookers."

"I would never hurt Christine." He wouldn't.

Madame Giry continued as if he had not spoken. "My personal objection concerns _my_ care for Mademoiselle Daaé. My daughter loves her. And I love her as if she were my own child. Brawling with her suitor while she is paying respects to her father endangers her. It is especially upsetting that you did this in a place she sees as safe." Her tone was cold enough to burn. It made Erik flinch.

"Why help someone you hate so?"

Madame Giry's wrinkles deepened. "I do not hate you. I am disappointed in you."

They were each obdurate—twin stones, smoothed by the waves of their long, long lives. Erik chose to speak: "You are a good mother…" He added "…to both your daughters, madame."

Giry smirked. "I have finished my lecture. You may call me Antoinette, Erik."

"It was a good lecture."

Antoinette huffed, not derisive but not embracing, "It involved people I care about." She paused. Then began again as she tended to his side, "I care about you, too."

Erik's head dropped at the sound of those words. Those syllables in that order... Antoinette Giry's tone…

He remembered his first night at the Palais Garnier. His first night home. Antoinette snuck him in through the half-moon windows that lined the palace at street level and opened into the backstage and basement. Palais. Palace. To this day it felt appropriate, but especially on that night. He went from straw and dirt to a pillow and blanket (still stone beneath him. A bed came later). He went from cages to his own lake and sanctuary. His own organ.

He pressed a few keys that night. He was timid and the instrument utterly foreign. Still, he found a bench for it before a bed for himself. His first "bench" was a simple wooden chair that he stole from the opera's dormitories. On the anniversary of his first night Antoinette gave him a pillow for the chair made from red velvet costume scraps.

Decades later she drew him from his thoughts. "Erik, this business with Christine…"

"Did Charlie put you up to this?" This consistent refrain irritated Erik.

Antoinette's eyebrows rose. "I do not believe monsieur Cushman is aware of our relationship."

"I love her."

"I know. But it pains you." She left out _it almost hurt_ _her_ , but Erik heard it despite her mercy. Antoinette sounded so much like Charlie. More refined, more understanding, yes, but the same goals.

"The world is a painful place." Erik chuckled darkly, "Life is hurtful."

"Very true." She nodded. "However, we can avoid some pains." She tied off the bandage around his abdomen.

"Perhaps I like this pain."

Antoinette gave a knowing laugh and sat back on the bench—far more lavish than the chair and pillow she had first given him. "Unrequited love does have a certain, terrible appeal."

Erik's interest piqued. "You speak from experience?"

"Indeed."

"Who was he?"

"You, of course." Her light tone was the antithesis of the lead gathering in his gut. "Fear not." His surprise, his discomfort, his embarrassment must have shown. She smiled. "I no longer feel that way. I am old. But even before my hair grayed those feelings changed to deep friendship. My greatest friendship, actually."

"You never said anything." He was confused. So confused.

"I hoped you would notice. But we were young." She brushed her hand through the air, as if brushing away the memories he reached to examine. "My hints were subtle and your ability to read them stunted. Like any teenager." She teased. "Boys especially." They looked out on the water together. She sighed. "It is a powerful experience, moving from one kind of love to another. There are so many ways to love." She turned to him. Her gaze was soft and gave him permission to dart between looking eye-to-eye and looking elsewhere. "I believe when you loves someone you want them to be happy. Even if that happiness does not come from being with you."

"We will be happy." He said soft like her, but vehement nonetheless.

"I certainly hope so." She rose. Gathered her supplies.

"Because you care for both of us?"

She closed the bag and smiled to him. "Because I love you both."

Her cane tapped across the stones, syncopating with the water. "Good night, monsieur."

"Good night, madame."

All profit and rights go to the estate of Gaston Leroux. Also to Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose musical introduced me to this story.

The story is named for the album that outlines its arc: "Heretic Pride" by the Mountain Goats. "Tallahassee" is also an album of theirs, so if you would like to listen to the story of "the alpha couple" (they are called so by the fandom) please do look it up on youtube and consider buying the album.


End file.
